“The surgeon of my regiment and myself had held a little council-of-war in the rear of our division, then moving into the fight; and it was settled, by mutual consent, that he should remain where he then was, with the main body, and reserve of our Æsculapian stores, to receive the more serious cases from the front, whilst I was to keep close in with the regiment, to afford the premiers secours to our wounded comrades before they passed to the rear. I happened to be tolerably well mounted. En croupe, I carried a pair of capacious alforges, or Spanish saddle-bags, containing, on one side a plentiful supply of the minor apparatus of surgery, and on the other such ‘provent’ as Captain Dougald Dalgetty would have laid in for a like occasion. Suspended to my saddle-bow was a borachio, or leathern bag, of country wine. Thus accoutred, I rode on with my regiment.
“We had just turned a rising ground, and had come into near view of the lesser Arrepiles, which was still crowned by a strong body of French infantry. A Portuguese brigade was in the act of storming the hill as we came up, and were gallantly mounting its side; but that most commanding point of the adverse position was quite as gallantly defended by the enemy, who as yet maintained their ground on its crest. A division of the Portuguese army, led on by Sir William Carr Beresford in person, was closely engaged at its base, nobly rivalling the feats in arms of their British allies.
“As we pressed on towards this interesting scene, a mounted officer, in Portuguese staff-uniform, galloped towards us from the front, shouting at the top of his voice, ‘A surgeon! a surgeon! a British surgeon!’ In an instant I was at his side, and recognised him to be Colonel Warre, one of the marshal’s aides-de-camp. ‘Follow me,’ were the only words pronounced by him, as he wheeled round his charger, and again spurred him towards the line of fire.
“After a few minutes’ gallop we drew up at a covered waggon, to which the colonel pointed with eagerness as he dismounted. I had already drawn the curtains of the vehicle aside, and perceived that it contained two persons; one in the uniform of a sergeant, the other I immediately recognised as the marshal himself. He was lying on his back, dressed in a blue frock-coat and white waistcoat. Just below the left breast was a star of blood, bright and defined as a star of knighthood. It was about the size of that chivalrous decoration, and occupied the exact spot where it is usually fixed. There was a small rent in its centre, black and round. The eyes were half closed; the countenance in perfect repose, perhaps a little paler than when I had last seen it.
“The situation of the wound, just over the fountain of life; the stillness of the wounded general; the appearance of his companion, whose lower limbs were literally mashed; the commander-in-chief and the non-commissioned officer laid side by side, silent, motionless, and bloody—all struck me at the moment as a prelude to the equality of the grave. I asked no questions, for I had come to the conclusion that there might be no tongue to move in answer. In an instant the marshal’s dress was torn open, and my forefinger, that best of probes, was deep in his side. Not a muscle moved, not a sound was uttered. I felt the rib, smooth and resisting below, whilst the track of the bullet led downwards and backwards, round the convexity of his ample chest. I now spoke for the first time since I had entered the waggon, and said, ‘General, your wound is not mortal.’ This observation of mine, which I made quite sure could not fail to be particularly interesting to my patient, seemed to have been heard with perfect indifference, for without taking the slightest notice of the very agreeable intelligence I had just communicated, he looked up and asked, ‘How does the day go?’ ‘Well,’ said I: ‘the enemy has begun to give way.’ ‘Hah!’ rejoined the marshal, ‘it has been a bloody day!’
“During this brief conversation I had traced the course of the ball by a reddish wheal, which marked its trajet, and I felt the missile itself deeply lodged in the flesh of the left loin. The preliminaries for cutting out were arranged in a moment, and the marshal had turned on his right side, when the wounded sergeant, having by this time, as I suppose, discovered my trade, began most lustily to call upon ‘Nossa senhora,’ and the doctor, in the same breath. I requested of him, in his own language, to be silent, telling him at the same time, that his general was lying wounded by his side. Upon this the marshal turned round his head, and with a reproving look said to me, ‘Sir, if that poor fellow’s wounds require dressing more than mine, dress him first.’ Both the words and the manner in which they were spoken made a strong impression on me at the time,—and impressions stamped on the field of battle are not easily erased. I assured his Excellency that nothing but amputation could be of any service to the sergeant, and that I had not the necessary instruments by me for such an operation.
“All parties were again silent, and I proceeded to cut out the bullet. My knife was already buried in the flesh, its point grating against the lead, when the marshal, feeling that I had ceased to cut, and calculating, perhaps that my steadiness as an operator might be influenced by the rank of my patient, again turned round, and with as much sangfroid as if he had been merely a spectator, said, in an encouraging tone, ‘Cut boldly, doctor; I never fainted in my life.’ Almost at the same instant I placed the bullet in his hand.
“When the wounds had been bound up, the patient demanded what steps he should next adopt. To this I replied, that it would be prudent to have himself bled after some hours. ‘But who is to bleed me?’ quickly rejoined the marshal. I was in some measure prepared for this question, and had already determined on the course I should follow.
“From the moment I had recognised the commander-in-chief of the Portuguese army lying wounded in a waggon, close in with the enemy, and had ascertained that his wound was not necessarily mortal, I saw that my being on the spot at such a moment might lead to my promotion. A fair, unimpeachable opportunity of tendering fresh services to him on whom the accomplishment of my ambition seemed to depend, was now afforded me. But such is the influence of an unflinching, unaffected firmness of character in a chief over those below him, and such the impression left on my mind by what I had just witnessed, that I felt convinced I should establish a higher place in the marshal’s good opinion by remaining in the fight than by volunteering to leave it, even for the purpose of attending to his wound. I therefore respectfully submitted to his Excellency, that my regiment was then probably in action; that I should be sorry to be out of the way when my friends and comrades might need my assistance, and that I hoped he would be kind enough to permit me to join them. ‘Most certainly,’ was the reply.
“I saw no more of the marshal for many weeks; and when I had the honour of being again presented, I found him very ill, suffering much from inflammation in his side, and a profuse discharge from his wounds, kept up, as was afterwards discovered, by some portions of woollen cloth, which the bullet had carried forward from the breast of his coat through the loose folds of which the missile had passed before it entered the flesh.